


sweetness and decency

by MAVEfm



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Eye Contact, FP and Fred have it, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Vietnam War, i kinda go off with the descriptions in this, listen okay Archie is gay and its the fifties he basically loves every boy he knows, riverdaleholidaygiftexchange2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-24 18:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22062343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MAVEfm/pseuds/MAVEfm
Summary: August, 1955Jughead plans a night at the Drive-In with his friends and worries about his father, Archie Andrews wrestles with his own state of being and wonders how the Southside greaser knows him.
Relationships: Archie Andrews/Jughead Jones
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	sweetness and decency

**Author's Note:**

> AAAH this might have two parts so keep an eye out Maybe!!  
> This is for @archieandrewsprotectionsquad's Holiday gift exchange!! Thanks Cam!! and to my giftee, Sydney, I hope this is everything you dreamed of lol  
> Catch me at my riverdale blog @serpentstrength and we can talk about jarchie or something!

August had gone by hot and sticky the without a passing glance in the noonday sun.

So hot were the days that it seemed there had to be steam floating up from Sweetwater River, and you could see it if you only stopped splashing long enough to squint. Jughead Jones, rarely seen without a cap and jacket (they say to cover up horrid tattoos, and that’s why his mother left), had left the articles on the banks near the old abandoned bridge. That was where the water got cold, and the trees got denser, much more shade and much more quiet.

So quiet that if you listened you could hear past the birdsong and the rustling wind and hear the scratch of his pencil on the newest page of his journal. Jughead wrote so much during that summer that it seemed like he was burning up, the effort of transcribing thoughts to page made him sweat, even more so now that he’d been kicked out of the house and into the hot summer air.

There was a lot that Jughead didn’t want to talk about that summer, even more going into September. But it was all there in those journals, every bit of pain and hurt that he’d felt he’d endured over the last year and a half. He told himself he could burn them, and all that would go away. But after the first little book went up in smoke and floating paper he realized he didn’t feel anything. 

He’d stacked his journals back up and headed home.

Sunnyside Trailer Park, far from any Northside real estate and farther still from any hope of ever getting out, was where Jughead had grown up, was living, and where he would die someday. His father’s trailer having been passed down the line since mobile homes had been invented. It was FP’s now, and when he keeled over it would Jughead’s. There was an element of faith to it, a destiny beyond any he could control, and it was in a strange way comforting. The Jones’ legacy was a trailer that was so old that even the bank was unsure of its origin.

Burning it down would be Jughead’s last stand.

But for now it stood, settled into the foundation and coming apart at the seams. 

The screen door had clattered open one night, its hinges squeaking. His father was asleep on the couch, boots still on and his hair a black mop; A signature of the Jones line, they often went to their graves without a dent in their hairlines. Jughead was delighted, in his own quiet way, at the absence of any beer bottles or even a stray wine glass. All that sat on their bowing coffee table was his old typewriter, the unfinished papers just slightly disturbed, meaning either FP had moved them out of the way, or had given them a once-over. He could never truly decide which would have been better, or worse. 

Their old black and white television was playing a quiet western, James Arness with his wide stetson was smiling pretty for some girl. Jughead remembers tilting his head, then turning away.

Antoinette met him a day later under the bridge, slipping her socks off and dipping her feet into the cold water. The heat from his writing had burned short, and his frustrated grimace did nothing to bring back his hot streak. His sketchbook sat idly by, full of quick studies and pictures of random passersby drawn in dark charcoal, and under that was his worn copy of J.D. Salinger’s _Catcher in the Rye_. Antoinette set it aside with some respect before thumbing through his sketches without a word.

Jughead stared heavily into the woods across the river, his eyes never finding the end. 

“I wish I could use charcoal like you do,” Antoinette traced the outline of a sketch, a drawing of F.P. glancing back over his broad shoulder, “Talk about expressive.”

“I saw your paintings last week,” Jughead responded, almost monotone, “When I was over for dinner, you’re way better with color than I could ever be.”

She smiled, but didn’t deny it.

Jughead had known Antoinette as long as he could remember, both trailer park babies, both attending Southside High in September, always together when it came to art. They’d had a fling back in eighth grade that just turned back into a friendship by the end, not that anyone in the Southside had cared, even if they weren’t really supposed to be compatible in the race area. Now they were just best friends, sharing space and the _Dark Room_ comics they both loved.

“This one is still my favorite.” Antoinette tapped a nail on the drawing he’d done of their friend Sweet Pea’s back, his head bent low and the leather of his jacket shining as it stretched across his broad shoulders. Jughead liked it too.

Sweet Pea had never seen it, but Jughead had always wondered if he would like it, or if he would be offended.

“Speaking of,” Antoinette dried her feet, “ _On the Waterfront_ is playing tonight at the drive-in, you wanna go?” 

“With the guys?” Jughead looked up at her when she stood.

Antoinette shrugged, “Yeah, come on, you should come, I know you think you’re a bit of a _fream,_ but they do like you, Jug, you’re funny.”

Jughead nodded, “Yeah, really funny.” She kicked him, and because he just couldn’t say no to her, he relented, “But I’m hauling ass the second they start acting like idiots.”

Antoinette side-eyed him like it was nobody’s business, then she was gone.

He packed up just an hour later, and found his father gone by the time he got back to the trailer, leaving it emptier than a pot of coffee after a morning rush. It felt cold without anyone there to live in it, make it a family home again. He felt out of place just sitting still at the end of his bed and filled the empty space with noise from the television while thumbing through his father’s motorcycle magazines.

It got dark faster than he thought it would, another indication that fall was biting at his ankles.

A loud honk came from out front, and Sweet Pea had arrived in his beat up pickup. It was a rusty shade of baby blue that stuck out in the dark greens of the trailer park, repaired more times than Jughead had teeth, and its breaks were squeakier than a mouse. Sweet Pea treated it like a fragile girl from a Hollywood romance.

Jughead waved to him as he shrugged his jacket on, and he said: “Get in!”

Jughead smiled, “Thanks for the ride.”

Antoinette moved to the middle seat as he clambered in on the passenger side.

Jughead had only become friendly with Sweet Pea in seventh grade after he had finally decided that Jughead’s continued presence in Southside middle school wasn’t some long prank on his behalf.

“You ever seen this flick before, Jug?” Sweet Pea asked as the truck weaved its way around the trailer park. 

“He’s seen all the movies,” Antoinette interjected, “Half his sketches are of Clark Gable and all those guys.”

“Well I didn’t ask him if he’d seen all of the movies, just this one,” Sweet Pea feigned irritation, but his knowing smirk almost made Jughead blush.

“Well, yeah,” He finally answered, “It’s got Marlon Brando in it.”

“Oh, yeah, like _Viva Zapata!_ ” Sweet Pea nodded, his face appearing in and out of the darkness from the passing street lights.

“Or,” Antoinette laughed, “ _A Streetcar Named Desire_? Ring any bells?”

“Eh, I’m not into that stuff, so this better be good,” Sweet Pea swung the truck around the corner, pumping the break after going just a little too fast. He’d made the mistake a thousand times carting Antoinette and Jug to and from the Drive-In all summer and he never seemed to learn. Jughead still found it thrilling, like the little bit of speed and the groan of the chassis meant they had to be on two wheels. Sooner or later he’d learn to drive, and get a little bit of that thrill all to himself up in the driver’s seat. He’d burn his brain out somewhere far away from Sweetwater River, then he’d come home in the truck that was parked behind the Jones family trailer with a meal from Pop all eaten. 

Antoinette laughed hard at something Sweet Pea was saying, and Jughead thought a little longer without the license wouldn’t hurt.

It was all dependent on his father anyhow, and it had been a long time since the truck had ever started. Jughead was of the notion that if his father ever got up from the couch long enough, the truck would start back up all by itself. It’s old and beat up body would spring back into itself, the cracks in the windshield would repair too alongside the broken window in the kitchen, split almost in two. Jughead used to look out that same window when his mother would cut his hair. He would look out out out past the fence of the trailer park and down into the Northside where everyone wore their Sunday best all the time and did not go to the drive-in with their best friends. And then he’d look back when his mother would ask: “How’s that for size?” and ruffle his hair. He’d look back at his father working outside on that same truck and shove his cap over his head. 

He’d ask to go to the Drive-In with Antoinette, just like she’d asked him to go with her earlier, and their two little families would go to see a picture. One car after the other on the road like a little parade. Whoever’s car lead would wave out the back windshield, and whoever’s car followed would wave back out the front and make faces.

Sweet Pea cleared his throat like he had prepared an announcement, and he usually had. They were Sweet Pea Announcements, he’d done them since grade school and were often small potatoes compared to any situation at hand, but that was how Sweet Pea operated: the small stuff had to be sweated.

“I got my buddy Fangs to show this time, just so you know.”

Antoinette turned all over-dramatic like she was gonna say something. Sweet Pea almost made to pull over until he really saw her face. Jughead could picture it, ever with her back turned: Her eyes wide and her mouth agape, like Fangs was someone totally new and unwanted. Instead Sweet Pea sighed and waved his hand, “Don’t have a cow.”

Fangs was becoming a new edition to Jughead’s tiny lexicon of friends, he was sweet and cheerful, and he ran with the same guys Sweet Pea ran with when Sweet Pea wasn’t running with Jughead and Antoinette. He was often in a leather jacket and had his hair greased back. Jughead thought he was perfectly fine, if a bit dense at times. But, he was the perfect foil to Sweet Pea.

The Drive-In came into sight just around the corner, and with it a small trickle of cars full of people looking for something to do on a weeknight. Jughead licked his lips at the monotony of it all, and Marlon Brando would soon join him. Sweet Pea found their car a place in the lot and his thoughts drifted to the last time he’d seen the movie, the way it moved, and the way he could move it if it was a comic book; Terry’s face when he told Charley he could have had class, could have been a contender…

“I could have been somebody,” Jughead whispered to himself.

“What’s that?” Antoinette asked him, fiddling with the car radio as popcorn danced across the screen.

“Nothin’, hey I got some cash, I’ll go get popcorn.”

Sweet Pea nodded, “Fangs’ll be up soon, he’ll be in a Chevy, point him this way?”

Jughead hopped out of the car and adjusted his Levi’s, “Sure, if I see him.”

The line for concessions was thankfully short and seeing a friend made it all worthwhile, besides the food, of course.

“Hey, greaser!”

Betty Cooper’s voice brought an honest to goodness smile to his sullen face, her bright-eyed cheeriness that always seemed genuine, even if she was working the first shift at the drive-in. 

“Hey, doll-face,” He responded.

“How much of the menu are you thinking of grabbing this time?” She leaned over the counter in a red sweater and collared shirt, her golden cross necklace falling out from under her apron emblazoned with the Drive-In’s logo. No wonder he’d had a crush on her for the longest time, she was a sweet Northside treat without all the high and mightiness. He thought about it for a second.

“Only half the menu this time I think, I like how you put ketchup on the hot dogs.”

Betty smiled, but then her face dropped and Jughead panicked for a second thinking he had done something to offend her. Some subtle hand motion that convinced her that he was the gum on the bottom of her polished loafers-

Until he was pushed aside by some hunk of meat in a letterman jacket. His shoulder practically burned from where him and football star Jason Blossom touched. Pouty and an absolute jackass through and through, with his little posse of Soc friends, all sporty jock types. Not that Jughead had any sort of grudge against tossing a ball back and forth, maybe it was just the candy-asses who acted like it was God’s gift that they could do it for a real team.

“Oh,” Jason said, acknowledging Jughead like he was some chair he’d bumped into, “Excuse me, trailer park.”

Jughead gathered all his own malice and spit it out onto the dusty ground in some impressive display of manliness and saliva he’d seen his own father perform once when he’d been young. Jason’s posse looked just a little disgusted. “Better clean that jacket off, Jason, it touched me and you might catch the poverty.”

It was good to own your own state of being.

Like the way Jason owned all that property up on the hill overlooking the rest of Riverdale, Thornhill, some spooky manor looking down at the town like some sort of beast.

Jason twisted his face into a sneer, then turned to Betty with a sudden smile. “Hey, Betts.”

“My name is Elizabeth,” She said, tapping a nametag that read: ‘Betty’. Jughead smiled.

“Well, Elizabeth,” Jason pressed, then listed off his order and he might have been buying for the whole team. Betty cast a glance his way, as if to say: ‘I won’t do it unless you want it done.’ Jughead understood her like he was reading his own journal, they’d been bonded over one summer just working at the library, and bookshelf friendships lasted longer than some playground fantasy.

He conceded, and left her to Jason’s order.

As he left he let his eyes slide over Jason’s lackey’s: Reggie Mantle, ‘Moose’ Mason, and Archie Andrews, who he only knew through his father, Fred.

They had some unspoken moment within that second, where Archie and Jughead were suddenly all alone sharing some secret complaint with the other, and then it was over.

Jughead walked away.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Football practice started in early August, hot and sweaty and putting Archie to bed. He was tired and sore, but he’d always love it. Not just because it was something to do, football made him feel good, like running would someday lead to flying. He’d been doing it since grade school, and there was almost never a bad memory. He didn’t want to be corny though, so he kept his opinions on the epic highs and lows varsity football to himself most of the time. 

His dad, Fred Andrews, was also pretty glad he liked it, having been on the team way back when he was in high school. He never had to complain that maybe his son should get out of the house more, put down the Dark Room comics and meet some friends down at Pop’s. Archie’s best memories were of him and his dad tossing the ball back and forth, tackling each other onto the nice green of their backyard while Mary Andrews planted her begonias. Vegas had been a puppy then, and nipped at their faces while they wrestled.

Not much has changed, save for maybe a slightly bothered knee for Fred. 

Archie’s love of the sport was what kept him present, motivated throughout the school year.

And it really bothered him now that he quite honestly dreaded practice.

It was Jason Blossom, to be quite honest. Archie didn’t like him. He didn’t like the way he talked to the team like he was the captain, a hard-won honor already held by Reggie Mantle. He didn’t like how Jason cut drills to shoot the breeze with the cheerleaders that practiced under his sister Cheryl. He didn’t like that Jason seemingly bought his way onto the team, or the way he talked to Coach, or the rest of the student body for that matter. It was really bringing Archie down.

Jason was supposed to be his teammate, though, and maybe it was like his mother said: People just needed time to mesh. That had to be it, in Archie’s mind, ever-positive just like he was taught, Jason needed time to mesh.

Maybe he waited too long, because by the time it was late into August, his simmering dislike of Jason Blossom had become a boiled over hatred.

Late August had caused a great many things to boil over in fact, more than Jason Blossom. Fred Andrews was really starting to worry about a place called Vietnam, it was all over the radio and the news on television, though Archie never really could understand it besides being too tired after he came home to really pay attention to anything. His father had a lot of war buddies, many he still talked to and a lot he couldn’t talk about, they called the house on specific dates late at night and would talk back and forth for a couple of hours into the dark. Archie often wondered if his dad even liked talking to them, if he liked laughing at jokes over the phone on the anniversary of having seen something truly awful. He wondered if his dad would be better off if he never knew any of those men at all.

Fred had sat him down one late night while his mother got ready for bed. From the way that he sighed, Archie knew they’d be talking about war, because he’d heard the sigh before too many of those hour-long phone calls.

“So, Archie,” His dad began, “You know that… Well what I want to say first, son, is that I love you.”

“Dad,” Archie remembered frowning but unable to ever finish his thought.

“You’re turning 18 soon, and I know there’s been nothing really in the news about it but I and… A lot of my old platoon, you know Benny and Rodgers, we don’t have the best feeling about Vietnam, same as when we didn’t have the best feeling about Korea.” There was a long pause where Archie watched his father tense and relax and tense again, wringing his hands and swiping a nervous hand over the stubble on his chin. His knee bounced and for a moment he was worried that his dad was going to throw up just from how pale he was getting.

“You’ll be 18 soon,” Fred continued, his voice just barely cracking, “And they’ll ask you to fill out a draft card just like I did, but I want you to know that there’s nothing to be afraid of, Archie.” Archie had nodded at these words, sure that if his father saw him convinced of this, his father might be okay, that he might not be sick. But Archie felt it, he knew what his father was afraid of on some other level of thinking. There was something he never wanted Archie to see, and Archie was okay with letting the shadows be shadows if his father was at ease.

“I know dad,” He said.

“Good, that’s good,” Fred said, “You know I love you, Arch.”

“Dad, of course-” Fred pulled him into a tight and sort of desperate hug that he quickly gave back as tight as he could, standing there in the living room with Vegas there licking at their fingers.

They hadn’t had another talk about it since. 

He had nightmares about the draft now, short and sweet, like that made it okay. His most common going like this: One moment he’s walking down the street toward school and the next he’s packed into a van and shipped in a crate that only opens when he’s in the middle of a raging battle. And then he wakes up.

He goes for a 1AM run and comes home tired and sore to find his mom waiting up for him in the kitchen. She lets him bury his head in her shoulder despite the sweat.

There’s another thing he fears, and he thinks about it the day Reggie Mantle tells him the whole team is gonna swing by the Drive-In that night to catch some Marlon Brando flick.

Archie wasn’t a movie guy, and his dad said television was a fad anyway. He only knew Marlon Brando because of Kevin Keller. “He’s all the rage, Archie, a real sensitive guy, strong chin, I go crazy just looking.”

Archie had looked at Kevin over his book, the two of them having met up to discuss the summer reading for Miss Haggly’s class at the library. They’d tucked themselves back into this little corner of the adult section, never to be bothered. Archie couldn’t hold back a smile, looking at skinny Kevin Keller in his sweater and dress shoes, Archie had worn his lettermen, as usual.

“I guess I just like Gregory Peck,” Archie supplied.

Kevin had rolled his eyes, “You only say that because Roman Holiday is the only movie you’ve ever seen in your life,” He took a pause to really look at Archie, “But you are right, Peck has got a very straight nose.”

Archie had near buried his own nose in the book he was supposed to be reading. “I wish you wouldn’t say those things so loud.”

Kevin shook his head, “Oh, if McCarthy was looking he’d have found us long ago.”

Archie really hoped not.

Another nightmare he’d have every once in a while went like this: Jason Blossom finds out about all the compliments Archie liked to pay him about his nice chin and straight nose, something happens after that too, but Archie chooses to forget about that part of the dream.

“He’s a very ugly person just in general, I think,” Kevin often told him, “Unfortunately all that ugly is on the inside and telling him to ‘get bent’ will only get you kicked off the team… But he’s got great arms.”

“He’s a good catcher,” Archie had avoided talking about arms as best as he could.

He wished, just once, it was Kevin he was going to see the movie with and not the Germ that was Jason Blossom.

Instead, he and Reggie went together and met the team there. It seemed that for the night, he would have to sit through his teams roughhousing until the movie came on. However, he found himself next in line to concessions, watching Jason get into fights with some greaser from the Southside. It embarrassed him, it made him want to run away somewhere where pretty Betty Cooper wasn’t getting harassed. In the end, it was the greaser that met his eyes, not Jason’s, and instead of some testosterone fueled stand-off, it was some quiet eye contact that seemed to suffocate Archie from the inside out. They had reached some sort of agreement together, though Archie couldn’t figure out for the life of him what it was about.

He looked back at the retreating greaser for a moment, then frowned. “Do I know him?”

“I think he’s Southside,” Reggie supplied.

“Huh,” Archie nodded, “I think he knew me.”

Jason left in a huff, probably ready to punch someone soon if he didn’t calm down. Betty Cooper however was more glum than anything. 

“You all right?” Archie asked her.

“I’ve dealt with worse, I’ll be fine,” She smiled, “I am a little worried about Jughead though, but he’s tough.”

“Jughead?” Archie looked back in the direction he’d gone. “That’s his name?”

“Not really, but that’s the only one he ever told me, we worked at the library together.” Archie blushed at the mention of the library.

“Oh.”

“Here’s your hot dog by the way,” Betty practically waved it in front of his face, “Enjoy the movie.”

He gave her a quick goodbye, thoughts still lingering on the stranger.

Jason’s car was this brassy red convertible thing that was always shining no matter the weather, and he’d parked it close to the screen in front of an old pickup who’s owners had thus far managed to ignore the rowdy chunk of the Riverdale Bulldogs. But Jason was ever defensive of it, even after understanding the risk he took whenever he brought it out to let the guys look. “Arch,” He said, pointing, “Take the back but don’t get the popcorn all over those seats.”

Reggie and him met eyes and hopped in the back, where he dropped a few pieces onto the floor just for fun. Soon though, the dancing sodas and hot dogs faded from the large screen and Johnny Friendly was bragging about his murderous exploits. He could tell that Terry Malloy was Marlon just from the way the camera focused on him, letting him squint and brood into the middle distance. He had soft gaze, though, and a little scar over his eyebrow that made Archie blink. When Edie, poor Joey’s sister, is introduced to Terry, Reggie gives a low whistle and pats Archie on the arm. He can only laugh, still looking at Marlon.

Archie has never felt _moved_ before, like his mother tells him she is by the sermons at church. He isn’t even totally sure what its supposed to mean, but he thinks he feels it. As Marlon Brando tells his brother: _“I coulda’ had class, I could’ve been a contender…”_ Archie screws his face into something to avoid what might have been tears. Maybe he was being moved like his mother, by Marlon’s earnestness, who’s to really say, because Jason suddenly stands up from the driver’s seat.

“Get your fucking hands off my car, hood!”

Archie glances around, angry for the distraction and confused at who Jason could possibly be talking to, until Jason stepped out of the car to face the truck behind them. Reggie and Archie both grappled quick with where to face, as did the rest of the team, looking back at some poor greaser looking like he’d been caught in the headlights.

* * *

Fangs Fogarty was always late, as Sweet Pea had supplied, he’s always distracted too. Maybe it was these two things that led to Jughead punching Jason Blossom in the eye.

It was almost halfway through the movie when Antoinette spotted him, weaving his way through the cars and greeting his other friends. She pointed, and then pushed her way out of the car through Jughead, pushing him out as well. “We’ll wave so he sees us,” She insisted, giggling as he tumbled out of the truck. He laughed with her, thinking of saving her expression in his mind just to draw it later.

Fangs soon waved back, a big toothy grin on his face, and made his way over.

“By the way, what’s his real name?” Jughead whispered at Antoinette. She shrugged at first, then leaned in.

“I think it’s Frederick?” She answered, her face screwed into disbelief, “Don’t quote me on that.”

“Hey, guys,” Fang smiled even brighter than the movie screen, giving the two of them quick hugs. He was always kind, in the few times that Jughead had met with him. Always smiling and always soft. Jughead wondered where he got it from, and how he found time to ever consider hanging around the rude and often crass Sweet Pea. “It’s so good to see you, I’m so sorry I’m late…” His eyes drifted to the movie as Antoinette told him it was no problem, then down to the red car in front of them. 

Jughead could smell trouble from a mile away.

“Damn, now that’s a Cherry,” Fangs crept forward just to sweep his fingertips across the finish.

Like a switch had been flipped, the driver stood, their angled face revealed them to be Jason Blossom, his red hair reflecting white from the movie. His face was twisted into disgust, the kind of hatred that made Jughead’s toes curl. 

“Get your _fucking_ hands off my car, hood!” 

He must have been looking at them through the rearview mirror, or how else could he have reacted so fast. Jughead sighed, wondering if it was all his fault that Jason had even parked there in front of the truck in the first place.

Jason scrambled out of his car, leaving the other patrons of the Drive-In to puzzle what exactly was going on. 

Fangs stumbled back into Jughead, sending them both to bump against the hood of the truck. Sweet Pea remained stoic inside.

“I was just saying she’s a Cherry, man, I wasn’t doing anything.” Fangs showed his palms and Jughead grabbed his arm, ready to pull him back.

“Hell yeah she’s a Cherry,” Jason spat and Jughead snuck a glance at Archie Andrews, still sitting in the car, but watching the exchange with rapt attention. “That’s why I don’t want you scratching up the wax, shithead.”

Fangs wrenched himself free of Jughead’s protective grasp, relenting, “Alright, nothing happened, I swear.”

Jason sniffed, seeming like he was more than willing to keep going with their spat until he nodded, “Good.”

“Great,” Antoinette said, “Now can we cut the gas and watch the movie?”

“Of course,” Jason told her, taking a step back. But he paused, “But…. Only after this guy _hauls ass-_ ” Then he wound up, and before Jughead could even think to stop it, Jason was swinging his fist into Fang’s face, sending the boy down hard. Sweet Pea crashed out of the driver’s seat and yelled: “Fangs!” And Jughead was left with a burning in his chest that powered his own fist, sending it swinging wildly as Jason tried to duck. Antoinette shrieked and the crowd of moviegoers started to yell and complain at their noise. Jason’s buddies, Archie, and the other, crawled over the back to grab Jughead until Sweet Pea tried to tackle one, sending him to the ground. Jughead finally caught Jason, catching him mid swing in the eye. 

Jason went down, almost screaming, while Jughead shook out his aching hand. Wincing, he ran back to Fangs, then stumbled back when someone grabbed the back of his jacket. He let out a surprised yelp, falling back to look up at Jason. He was holding his eye with one hand with the other curled into a fist, his sneering expression barely lasted a second, however, until Archie Andrews grabbed him and pulled him back. For a second, they tussled, Jason hitting Archie around the face, but he was no match for him. Archie was bigger and stronger. Sweet Pea had no trouble holding back Jughead, and then they were both facing each other, bleeding and sweaty, shaking with adrenaline and breathing hard.

The reason they had stopped hadn’t been due to any common sense, but instead the fear of getting caught. The Drive-In’s owner, a Mr. Svenson, was yelling at them rather loudly, shaking his flashlight at the two groups. “All of you kids! Haul ass! Get out! I don’t want to see any of you here for a month!”

The football team began to gather its things.

“That’s right!” Svenson nodded, “Get out, you hear me? Go on!”

Jughead shook off Sweet Pea and Jason shook off the valiant Archie Andrews. They locked eyes again, just him and Archie.

Archie nodded, then bent to give Antoinette a hand with Fangs as he struggled to stand.

Jughead caught him by the arm, “Thanks.”

Archie paused, then nodded, licking his bleeding lip, a souvenir from Jason, “Sure.”

“Jug,” Sweet Pea barked, “Let’s get out of here.”

The movie was still playing by the time they managed to pull out from the Drive-In leaving Jughead angry and disappointed. With Antoinette and Fangs stretched out in the back of the truck, he was left in the cab with a simmering Sweet Pea.

After a minute, Jughead sighed, feeling the weight on his shoulders, “It’s my fault, I wound him up at the concession stand.” Sweet Pea shook his head.

“I think he would have done something either way,” He growled, “That jackass thinks he owns everything.”

They sat in silence, something close to companionable until Sweet Pea turned up the radio.

The news, talking about Vietnam. They were always talking about Vietnam.

“My mom says: the way things are going, we’re all gonna have to go to Vietnam.”

Jughead watched him for a long moment, tracing his profile. The way his nose curved and the way his lips settled in a scowl. The way his hair fell into his face and the way he pulled it back on habit every few minutes.

“My dad doesn’t really talk about that sort of stuff,” He finally responded. Sweet Pea only nodded, understanding.

“She says it’ll be the same thing they did in Korea, just stopping the ‘flow of communism’.”

“You think we’ll get drafted?” Jughead asked him.

“I’m going to Canada before that happens, fuck Eisenhower, I’m taking all of you with me.”

And before Jughead could ask him what he meant by that, they were home, and Sweet Pea was pushing him out again. “Get out of my car.”

Jughead slammed the door shut and waved Antoinette and Fangs goodnight. He was left in the dim light of the porch lamps from his trailer, and inside, his father was passed out on the couch. His boots were still on and the coffee table was littered with bottles. The tv was on, showing a rerun of the days western show. Jughead had already seen it, as he’d seen every western before it.

He tapped F.P. on his leg, “C’mon dad,” His father groaned. “You gotta go to bed.”

He untied the laces of his father’s boots and by the time he’d gotten them off his dad was blinking awake, blurry, smelling like booze. He coughed. “Where have you been?”

“At the Drive-In,” Jughead told him, watching him steady himself, “Went to see that Marlon Brando flick… We should go sometime.”

“See a movie together?” F.P. seemed astonished by the idea, making his way ever so slowly to the bathroom. Jughead shrugged.

“Sure, I mean-”

F.P. had suddenly grabbed his face, examining his cuts and bruises. “What’d you do?”

Jughead searched his father’s face, “Got in a fight.”

“With who?”

“Just some guy,” He shrugged. His father scoffed, but let him guy.

“You give as good as you got?”

“Think so.”

“Think so?”

“I did, yeah.”

F.P. nodded, still blurry and tired as he ran his hands under the sink and washed his face. Jughead leaned against the doorframe.

“Dad?”

F.P. grunted.

“I was talking to Sweet Pea… We were talking about Vietnam, and all the stuff going on… His mom says-”

“Mrs. Conners reads too many military newspapers,” F.P. interrupted, turning to face him, “Has since her husband died in Korea, all they do is spout crazy shit about commies,” He poked a finger into Jughead’s chest, “I don’t want to hear you talking about Vietnam in this house, boy, you hear me?”

Jughead swallowed, then nodded, wishing he could say more, “Yeah, yeah…. I hear you.”

They lingered there, in the door. Then F.P. nodded back, “Good.”

His father eventually found his way to his bed, drinking another beer on the way and settling in without brushing his teeth. Jughead only watched from a crack in the door to his own bedroom. The one he used to share with his sister.

War was a tricky subject for his father. Tricky in the way that if it was ever talked about, he’d storm out of the room, angry like he’d been lit on fire. F.P. hated the military, for what it had done to him, to his family. What he’d seen while fighting the Germans would always remain a secret, swallowed up by booze and locked up in his own mind until the day he died. But maybe, if Jughead looked hard enough behind his red rimmed eyes he could see the bombs going off, or if he listened hard enough he’d be able to hear the gunfire that made his father twitch.

He’d memorized his father’s face as they stood in the bathroom, and now he was putting it to page. Without a doubt, there were tears in his father’s eyes, brought on by thoughts of Jughead’s fast approaching 18th birthday.

His hands shook and he dropped the pencil just before darkening the deep dark circles under his father’s eyes.

He let the drawing go.

He cleaned the cut on his cheek, then hurried to bed, sleeping deep. He dreamed about Archie Andrews.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The last week of August started hot and got chilly, and Archie was thinking about Jughead Jones.

The season would start soon and his thoughts were supposed to be of football and his plays and his team. But he dreamed of their eyes meeting a dozen or so times before he confessed to Kevin Keller in their library hideout.

“Well,” Kevin could have been blushing, “Just be careful.” Archie could have picked Kevin up and thrown him through a window.

“What do you mean?”

Kevin paused, “Are you attracted to him?”

Archie looked down at the book he was supposed to be reading, suddenly tired. “I guess… I just keep thinking about him, not like how we talk about Jason, like I mean… I don’t think I can really describe it, but he was there, present, like we looked at each other and had a conversation.” Kevin smiled.

“That’s really nice, Archie… I wish I could find that.”

Archie smiled, small and more than a little embarrassed, “I doubt we’ll ever see each other again… But, Kev,” He waited for Kevin to look back up at him, “You’re a really good friend… And I’m not just saying that, I mean, I’ve told you things I would never tell Reggie, or Moose, or Betty, and we’ve known each other since we were two.”

Kevin tilted his head, smiling, “We’re victims of circumstance, Arch, no wonder we found each other.” Then, in the privacy of their library nook, they held each other’s hands, briefly, deeply.

It was late on the first night of September when the phone rang. Archie was awake, blinking away sleep as he tried to finish the assigned reading. Them he heard his father’s voice, speaking softly and comfortingly to the other person on the line.

Archie had only ever heard the tone directed at him, and, unable to believe he would ever finish the book, he packed it away in his new backpack and crept halfway down the stairs to listen.

Fred Andrews stood, as he seemed to always, in front of the rotary telephone. His quit tone reverberating around the house, almost putting Archie right to sleep right there on the steps.

“Of course… you know your father, he’ll be okay… Are you sure?”

Archie strained to hear the person on the other end.

“He said that?” His father asked, harsher than before, “Are you okay? … No, I know it’s not, son, it’s not your fault either… I’ll… I’ll come down, see what I can do.” Archie frowned and leaned forward to see his father already putting on his shoes and jacket.

“Arch, I know you’re there.”

Archie froze, but couldn’t ignore his father for very long. He came to settle on the last step, watching his father lace up his shoes. 

“Where are you going?”

Fred grunted, “Down to the Southside, to help a friend.”

Archie furrowed his brow, but before he could ask, his dad was handing him his own shoes.

“Why not come with?”

It was an allowance into a world it seemed only his father could live in and he was being offered a way in.

He took his shoes, and followed his father out to the car, careful to not wake his mother.

Archie had never really seen the Southside except maybe once or twice. It had always been dark, covered in moss and trees that hung down onto the road. The houses were small and the gardens were overgrown. Or maybe that’s just what it looked like when he was a kid.

The Southside he saw now was small, even cramped, but homey and connected looking. Things were overgrown, but in a way that it was meant to be. There was no escaping the low income look, but at least the homes were homes. Homes with gardens and playsets and sand boxes. 

Life didn’t just stop on the way out of Northside.

_Jughead Jones lives here,_ he thought. 

His own curiosity made him sit up straighter.

Sunnyside trailer park was their stop, finally. Its parking lot was overgrown and the fence was bending in the middle. The trailers that sat on the lot were worn in and turning a shade of brown that was reserved for old metal. Each one was different, and had its own lawn and set amount of space. Some were dark on the inside, others were casting dim beams of light on the wood chips below.

“Which one?” Archie asked, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

Fred nodded to one near the end of the lot. It was bigger than some, with a nice porch and an old recliner stretched out in front. It had once had a nice garden planted out front, but that had died off, leaving a patch of dried plants and a barren looking front yard. The porch light was on, and a few lamps burned inside, but Archie couldn’t see through the windows.

There was a quick yell, and something smashed on the floor inside, maybe a plate, if Archie was guessing. Fred quickened his pace to knock on the door.

And who else would open it but Jughead Jones.

Still in jeans and a t-shirt like he’d just gotten home, he looked frazzled and tired. Archie glanced behind him to see bits of a broken plate and a man slumped over, leaning against the kitchen counter.

He was crying.

“He was trying to make breakfast,” Jughead said, as if that explained everything.

Fred nodded, “I’ll talk to him… Uh, Jughead, I’ve told you about my son, Archie, why don’t you two catch up?”

Archie locked eyes with Jughead, and after a week, the feeling was still there, like an agreement they both shared. Jughead looked just as befuddled as Archie felt.

“Uh, okay… thanks Mr. Andrews.”

Archie’s dad nodded, then stepped inside to kneel before the sobbing man. But Jughead didn’t let him see much, shutting the door before Archie could hear them speak to each other. Jughead eased passed him, shoving his fists into a large leather jacket that had to be his fathers and led Archie on a walk to the other side of the trailer.

There, an old pickup sat stagnant.

“The blinds are up, so we can sit up here, if you want.” Jughead climbed up onto the top of the cab to sit.

Archie followed him like a string was wrapped around Jughead’s finger.

The silence that followed was crushing.

“So… how do you know my dad?” He asked, not being able to take it anymore. For a second, he traced Jughead’s sharp profile in the darkness, letting his eyes travel to his thin shoulders and torso to his lean fingers that rested on the curve on the roof of the cab.

“They served together, I think,” Jughead answered, “Really briefly, I think, he doesn’t talk about it all that much."

Archie nodded, knowing that feeling all too well. “Yeah, mine doesn’t either.”

Archie turned to look at him, only to find Jughead had done the same.

“So is… Is Jughead your actual name?”

Jughead let out a breathy laugh, “Is Archie yours?”

“Uh, no,” Archie smiled, needing to look away but unable too now that his eyes were adjusting to the dark, catching onto the the healing scars on Jughead’s face from the fight with Jason. He had his own scratches to mirror them. “It’s Archibald, actually.”

“...Forsythe,” Jughead told him, “The third.”

They both shared a laugh that was heavy with distraction, the two of them thinking mostly of their fathers.

“So… What do you do?” Archie asked him, trying to release the strain in his chest, thinking of the crying man inside the trailer.  
  


Jughead wasn’t much of a talker, though, but neither was Archie, and they shared brief bits and pieces of conversation while watching fireflies dance under the stars. 

Archie talked about football, his team, about Reggie, about how much of an ass Jason was to even his own social circle. That part made Jughead laugh, and Archie, after just thinking about the boys eyes for a solid week, thought it was exhilarating to have something new to add to his knowledge. Cautiously, he also told him about Kevin, and their corner of the library. “If you want, you could… also come study with us.”

Jughead paused at that and Archie mentally shook himself.

“Maybe,” Jughead said, “I’ll see what happens, I’m trying to help some of my friends study before our senior year starts, but everyone’s getting too worried to even try.”

Archie knew instantly what he was talking about. “The draft,” he said, “Vietnam.”

Jughead took a quick glance at the window into the kitchen, then back at Archie.

“Yeah,” He said, “Isn’t that so stupid? There hasn’t been any war talk from anyone big but here it feels like the most important thing in the world? I don’t even think it’ll really happen but I’m…”  
  


“Terrified,” Archie finished for him, “Yeah.” He stared down at his dangling feet.

“I just…” Jughead reached up and pulled the cap off of his head, “I don’t know what scares me more, the horror of it, or what it does to you after, like my dad.”

Jughead tells Archie how he likes to draw and write, “But it’s like now I can’t write anything happy, or good, and I can’t draw anything that makes me feel better, just war scenes, or my dad…” He shook his head, “I wish I didn’t have to, I wish I could watch those spaghetti westerns all day on television and forget it all.”

“My dad tried to talk to me about it,” Archie began, recounting his conversation with his father, “I think he threw up afterward… I don’t want that to happen to me, Jughead, I’m not like him, what if I just break, and I can’t do anything but lay in bed, catatonic until I die?”

He hadn’t even told Kevin this, and now he was telling a near stranger.

The near stranger said: “I wanted to take a job at Dark Room Comics and leave, forget Riverdale, and go to New York, but I feel like I’m stuck in place, burning up from the inside.”

Archie watched him wring his hands, then tentatively, put a hand on his shoulder. They stayed there for a moment, until Archie said: “Sometimes I feel like I’m being chipped away, by everybody except myself, like I’m not allowed to make any changes that I want to make, I just have to be quiet and let people change me.”

Jughead suddenly shifted his whole body to see Archie straight on, looking through him with his striking gray eyes that almost glowed. But he didn’t say anything.

Archie barely noticed it until it was there, Jughead’s hand, his fingers resting along his jawline and his thumb on his lip where Jason had split it just a week before. Jughead frowned, examining the cut and the purple bruise just underneath. His touch, faint as it was, burned Archie’s skin, and then it was gone.

“I go to Pop’s, every Wednesday,” Jughead told him, “Did you want to… see each other again?”

Archie wanted to bury his head in the dirt and never resurface, but he could only nod, his eyes locked with Jughead’s. “Yes… yeah-”

Fred Andrews called his name and the two of them scrambled away from each other like they’d been fooling around, a thought that made Archie trip. “So I’ll… I’ll see you.” He rushed away, back to the car and past his father, his mind racing and twisting and spitting back out a type of hyper-real daydream that disappeared as soon as he decided to indulge in it. His father took a few minutes to talk to Jughead, then made his way back to the truck.

Their ride home was silent, but all Archie could do was touch his lips where Jughead’s thumb had burned its mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put the second chapter there just in case I wanted to say more, and one day I will

**Author's Note:**

> I watched on the Waterfront and Rebel without a Cause in one night a few weeks ago and uh... this happened lol  
> Also I feel soo bad lol this this turned into a character study and they only met near the end yikes but I wanted to add a second part bc I got so into it so hopefully you'll stick around


End file.
